The pastor's visits to his patron and quondam pupil had never been frequent; they had been limited, for the most part, to pastoral calls, when deputations had to be received or clerical matters discussed, but had generally ended by taking the form of solemn drinking bouts; for Leo, whose cellars were stocked with fine wines, delighted to pour his best into the old man's glass, whose connoisseurship failed only from want of practice. That was an accepted and invariable custom, dating from his father's hilarious times; and even the oldest amongst the retainers could not remember a day when their pastor had left the precincts of Halewitz sober.
"Hullo, old fellow!" called Leo, stretching out his hand to him. "How is it we haven't met all this time? Uneasy conscience, eh?"
"A man of God has never an uneasy conscience," replied the pastor, with a grin--"unless he has been drinking water;" and he mopped his shiny face and bacon neck with a red-cotton pocket-handkerchief.
"Wait," thought Leo; "you shall not get off to-day;" and he motioned to the groom to unsaddle the mare again.
As they walked up side by side to the portico, the parson whose corpulent figure swayed from side to side, appeared of more massive and powerful build than his old pupil, although the latter towered half a head over him.
Leo led him into the study, asked him to sit down, and rang for Christian.
"Bring us a bottle of sour cooking Moselle," he commanded.
The old servant gave him an astonished look. "It is not fit to drink even in the kitchen punch-bowl," he took the liberty of murmuring.
"Do what I tell you!"
Christian departed, shaking his head, and Leo settled himself comfortably opposite the pastor.